For the Sake of Friendship
by D1g1m0ncrazy
Summary: France attends an Allies' Meeting whilst he is under the weather, though he initially insists that nothing is wrong there is someone who don't buy it. When France passes out, and with no one else around, it's up to Britain to care for his long time rival. No pairings, simply friendship rated T for safety.
1. Britain to the Rescue

"_Another typical Allies' meeting_" Britain thought to himself as America blabbered on at the front of the room. The bloody git seemed to believe they could build a plane large enough to move the Earth out of orbit and into a new solar system. Britain sighed; America's logic was so pathetic that it was almost insulting to think he'd raised the chap.

"Bloody ridiculous" Britain muttered under his breath, stealing a glance at the others.

China seemed to agree that this was absurd, as he promptly requested that America let someone with a brain take it from there. Russia was off to the side, chuckling eerily. It made Britain shudder, but then again, Russia was always a creep. Still, something seemed oddly out of place at this meeting. The Englishman couldn't quite put his finger on it...

"America, you bloody git, I agree with China sit down" he found himself saying.

"But I'm the hero; no one can come up with a better plan than I can!" America said brightly.

Suddenly, Britain realized what was so different- France hadn't said a word since he'd walked into the meeting! As much as he despised the Frenchman, he figured he might as well get him talking.

"Hey France, isn't America's plan stupid?" the Englishman inquired.

There was no response. In fact, the Frenchman seemed dazed.

"Frog! You awake over there, you bloody wanker?" Britain tried again.

France jolted slightly "Oui... Did you say something?" he asked tiredly.

"Never mind that" Britain crossed his arms "You alright, Frog- face?"

China glanced over "If you are sick France, I know ancient Chinese remedies."

"Non… I am just… how you say? Tired." France replied.

There was silence a few moments before America continued attempting to explain his farfetched plans and for a while, everyone forgot about France's peculiar behavior.

At the meeting's conclusion, most left, but Britain found himself hanging around. He walked over to where France was still seated. The Frenchman was bent forward slightly, his golden locks hiding his sapphire eyes.

"Are you alright, Frog?" Britain asked.

"Oui.." France said slowly "Laissez-moi tranquille" the Frenchman stood to go, but wavered slightly as a look of dizziness crossed his face.

Britain rolled his eyes "Oh sure, you bloody wanker, you look like you're going to fall over! Sit down, Frog"

"Non…" the Frenchman replied weakly.

Britain got a good look at the Frenchman's face. His face was flushed and dark circles lurked beneath a pair of dull blue eyes.

"Bloody hell, France! Sit down." The Englishman ordered.

France shuddered "Bonne nuit" and with that he fell towards the floor, unconscious.

Britain reacted quickly and caught his old- time rival. His arms quivered slightly under the weight of the larger man. Still, he wasn't about to let the git hit his head off the floor if he could help it. Mustering his strength, he heaved the Frenchman up so he could support his weight better. Britain swung one of France's arms over his shoulder and held it in place. With his other hand, Britain firmly grasped the Frenchman's waist and began to walk him out of the room.

The building was silent, and there was no one to notice them. Pushing the door open with his shoulder, Britain half- carried the Frenchman outside into the humid, summer air. Eyeing a pillar by the front steps, Britain carefully eased the older nation into a sitting position with his head resting on the pillar. Though he often acted as though he hated France, that wasn't entirely true. No matter how annoying, perverted, idiotic, or just plain disgusting France was- he was still very much an older brother to Britain, and Britain could never hate someone whom he called brother. The Englishman reached over to feel France's forehead "The frog's bloody burning up" he muttered to himself. He decided the best thing was to take France home with him and try to care for him the best he could. He was sure, had the roles been reversed that France would do the same for him.

Hastily, Britain went to find his car in the parking lot and drove it over to where the Frenchman's unconscious form sagged against the support pillar. Getting out of his car, Britain quickly opened the rear passenger-side door and proceeded to heave the ailing Frenchman up and laid him neatly across the two back seats. When he was satisfied that France was securely placed, Britain closed and locked the car door and proceeded to return to his spot in the driver's seat. Britain sighed and turned his key in the ignition, starting the car, and then he was off- headed down the road toward his home.

Britain pulled into his driveway, glancing in the rearview mirror at his unconscious passenger. The Frenchman looked completely and utterly exhausted. The only sign of movement he showed was the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Britain couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the Frenchman. Though not too sorry as he was going to be taking care of France himself. He shuddered to think what a chore that would be, but it would be worth it in the end to have his rival to argue with once more. Getting out of the car, Britain opened the rear passenger-side door once more to retrieve the older nation. It was more difficult to get the older man out than it had been to get him inside! Nonetheless, Britain managed to get France into a somewhat standing position as he braced the older nation against his own body. By the time Britain got France inside and onto his sofa, the Englishman was drenched in sweat that came from a mixture of the summer heat and his efforts of lugging around France's dead weight.

Britain resolved he'd get a shower in a little while. First, however, there were more pressing matters at hand. France appeared to be shivering, probably due to the fever, Britain guessed. He went and fetched a thick quilt from his linens' closet in the hall and a thermometer from the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom. Not wasting any time, Britain made his way back to the living room in which the Frenchman lied limply on his couch. Britain gazed at his rival softly; their constant 'war' was always put on hold if it was something urgent- Surely, this qualified. Britain spread the thick quilt out over the sickly nation and wrapped it around him to try and help put a cease to his shivering. Then without skipping a beat, Britain eased the thermometer into France's mouth and waited for a reading.

"Bloody frog, why didn't you say you weren't feeling well, we could have had China's help" the Englishman fumed, though mostly he was concerned about France. It wasn't often the older nation got sick, much less passed out.

BEEEEP!

The thermometer sounding snapped Britain out of his thoughts and he carefully removed it from the Frenchman's mouth. "Bloody Hell" he muttered to himself.

The thermometer read 104.2°F

That was a pretty nasty fever, and France simply showed no signs of stirring. He'd have to do the best he could. He supposed he could call a doctor, or even China, but Britain wanted to see if he could get France's fever down. Thinking quickly, Britain walked briskly into his kitchen and pulled a tray of ice out of the freezer. Though he had not intended to use it in this fashion, he was surely glad he had it. Britain chose five well formed ice cubes and wrapped them in a clean cloth.

"Now let's see if this doesn't cool you down" he muttered to an unconscious France as he laid the make-shift icepack on the Frenchman's forehead.

France groaned unconsciously, but did little else.

Britain glanced over to the corner of the room where a lovely wooden chair sat proudly next to a rather tasteful lamp. "I better keep a close eye on France for the time being" he told himself and pulled the chair closer so it sat facing the sofa. Whether France liked it or not, when he woke up the first thing he'd see would be the British nation sitting in front of him. That was… if he did wake up. Britain shook his head, banishing the thought. France would wake up, he wasn't THAT sick, was he? Still, that fever was worrisome. Britain promised himself if it rose any higher he'd drive France to the Hospital.

A half hour passed and the Englishman doubted the makeshift icepack had any more use to it. Removing the wet cloth carefully from France's forehead, Britain made his way back into the kitchen and over to the sink. Turning the cold water on, the British man stuck his hand under the flowing water to test its temperature. When the water felt almost unbearably cold, Britain placed the cloth under the water and let it get thoroughly soaked. He then proceeded to turn off the faucet and wring out the cloth so it wouldn't be dripping wet. He then returned to the living room where France hadn't so much as rolled over.

Britain dabbed carefully at the older nation's neck and cheeks with the cold, wet cloth before placing it on the Frenchman's forehead.

France's body seemed to jolt slightly and Britain watched him expectantly.

Author's Note: I'm a fairly new fan of Hetalia who decided to try the series on a whim when I wasn't feeling well and wanted some entertainment. I thought I would hate it, but to my surprise, I enjoyed it thoroughly. It has slap- stick comedy as well as some events loosely based on history. Granted, some people hate on it because of all the creative liberties that were taken, but honestly the same can be said about plenty of movies based on historical events and Hetalia certainly has a unique, lighthearted spin on things that I found myself laughing at more than once. So for the Hetalia fans out there, here is the first chapter of my first Hetalia fanfic- I hope you can find it enjoyable. To anyone else who has read my previous work, yes, I have returned and I do plan on updating if inspiration comes to me. Also: Reviews make me happy =D

***Translations***

Laissez-moi tranquille = Leave me alone

Bonne nuit = Good Night


	2. Unbearable Cold

He had been working for what felt like hours and had long since grown weary. Usually customers that came to this French restaurant were polite, classy patrons, but not today. Today everything was going wrong. Not only were the customers rude, and impatient, but somehow he'd messed up each one of their orders. Frantically, he dashed from table to table- his head reeling

"Sacre Bleu! This is a nightmare!" he cried aloud.

"Then allow me to wake you up!" another waiter dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

France groaned and opened his eyes, slowly realizing that he had been having a fever dream, and something cool and wet was on his forehead. His tired eyes drifted down, taking note of the quilt that encompassed his body. Shivering, he was grateful for the added warmth it could offer. He closed his eyes.

"_Wait a moment… where am I_?" the thought entered the Frenchman's head and he opened his eyes once more.

"France, how are you feeling?" a voice came from close by.

France looked up, that sounded like Britain. Sure enough, a blond haired man swam into his line of vision. He had bushy eyebrows and stern, emerald eyes. "Oui… Britain, is that you?" France asked, his head pounding with every word.

"Of course it's me, Frog. Who else would it be?" Britain said firmly.

True enough, France glanced around as his head punished him for the simple motion. This did indeed look like Arthur Kirkland's living room. Tall bookcases lined the far wall, proudly housing several hundred books. There was a dormant fire place that seemed well taken care of and- France had to close his eyes, surveying the room was making him dizzy.

"France, you're not going to pass out again, are you?" Britain asked.

"Non…" France replied, eyes closed "I am just a bit lightheaded" the Frenchman put a hand to his forehead and blinked his eyes open as his finger closed around the wet cloth. He looked at Britain questioningly.

"You were running quite a fever, Frog- I had to cool you down somehow" Britain said simply.

"Why, mon cher?" France asked weakly.

"Well I wasn't going to bloody well sit there while you boiled to a bloody crisp! Honestly, Frog." Britain snapped.

"Non. I mean… why did you bring me home with you?" France asked tiredly. His entire body ached. Even his throat was starting to feel raw.

"You passed out, France. I wasn't about to leave you lying there in the Board room. I could have bloody well made you someone else's problem if I wanted to, but I'm not that kind of person. You're bloody annoying France and I loathe you so. However…" Britain faltered.

France's blue eyes were completely focused on him. Despite them being dulled with fever, they were watching him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

Britain shifted uncomfortably. Why was it so hard for him to admit aloud? It had been running through his mind since the moment he'd noticed France was sick! He took a deep breath "You're like an older brother. Despite our differences I can always rely on you to be there." Britain said, blushing slightly as he was usually never so straight forward about his feelings.

France smiled weakly "I know, Arthur"

Britain blinked "You never call me by my human name, has your fever gone up?" he placed a hand on France's forehead.

"Non, mon cher. I am grateful to have a younger brother like you" his voice came hoarsely.

"Your throat sounds agitated. How about I get you some ibuprofen and a nice hot cup of tea?" Britain said. Perhaps concerned with the new symptom, or perhaps he simply wanted to get out of the uncomfortable conversation.

"Oui… only could you bring me some wine instead, mon cher?" the Frenchman croaked.

"Bloody Frog! You're sick, and if you think I'm about to bring you any form of alcohol you can just bloody well bite your tongue" Britain said firmly and walked out of the room.

France smiled lightly to himself and rested his eyes a moment. He loved to tease Britain; even now it made him feel slightly better. Suddenly, the Frenchman felt something rising in his chest, the sensation working its way into his throat. He tried to clear his throat, but it was to no avail as he broke into a coughing fit.

"Are you alright in there, France?" Britain called from the kitchen.

France shivered as the coughing subsided, he felt so cold. Why was he this cold? For the love of all things beautiful! It was summer. Summer was supposed to be hot and humid… So why did he feel like he had gone to visit Russia in the middle of winter without so much as a jacket? France clung to the quilt around him, desperately seeking warmth.

"Bloody hell! Frog, are you listening to me?" Britain called again.

France didn't answer, his throat was raw and he simply felt too cold.

Britain felt his guts twisting in worry and he burst back into the living room "Francis! I swear, if you're just trying to scare me you're doing a bloody good job" he paused as he saw France shivering uncontrollably.

"France, are you alright… You better answer me, you wanker" Britain threatened, though his voice was full of concern.

"Mon Ami… I am so cold" France shuddered weakly.

Relieved to see that France was at least still conscious, Britain let a smile sigh escape his lips "Let's get that ibuprofen in you now. With any luck, it'll bring down your fever and you won't feel so cold" not waiting for an answer, Britain hastily collected a pair of ibuprofen and a glass of water and returned to the still shaking Frenchman. He set the glass of water down on a nearby tea table and helped the older nation into a sitting position.

France was trembling horribly, but managed to down the medicine. He looked absolutely miserable.

"Would you like me to get you an extra blanket?" Britain found himself offering.

"P-please mon cher.. I am freezing" France said weakly and broke into another coughing fit.

"I'll be right back" Britain said "And Frog, if you so much as move one bloody foot, I'll tie you to that sofa!" he threatened. Again, he didn't truly mean it, but he was genuinely concerned for the older nation.

As his coughing subsided, France groaned and let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes. He tugged the quilt closer to himself as he shivered- he was so tired… and so cold…

"Here you are" Britain was saying as he came back into the living room, another blanket in hand.

France opened an eye "Merci" he said weakly as the Englishman wrapped the second blanket around him.

"I'd like to take your temperature, Frog. I know the ibuprofen can't have kicked in just yet- but I want to see how high your fever is" Britain said, reaching for the thermometer.

France was too weak to resist and permitted Britain to slip the thermometer under his tongue.

Britain stood close by as he waited for a reading. He hoped desperately that France's fever hadn't gotten too high. "_Stupid Frog.. How'd he even bloody get sick?_" Britain wondered to himself. France didn't know the answer to that himself.

BEEEEP!

The thermometer proclaimed it had done its job. Britain carefully removed it, feeling a bit hesitant to look at the reading. "104.9°F" he read aloud, his heart sinking a little. So the fever _had_ risen. It wasn't a full degree, but France seemed so much more miserable than he had been only hours before at the meeting. Britain weighed his options; there was still one more thing he could try. "Frog, it's time for a shower." He stated.

France blinked "What was that... mon cher?"

"You heard me, you wanker. You're getting a cold shower whether you like it or not" Britain said firmly, already helping France into a sitting position "If you can support your own weight at all, please do- you're not exactly a piece of cake to lug around"

"Mon cher… You are so rude to me" France whined tiredly.

"Shut up, Frog. This is for your own good" the Englishman half lifted the older nation up off the sofa.

Though he felt utterly exhausted and dizzy, with Britain to support him France was able to walk in a somewhat straight line. Nevertheless, by the time they reached the bathroom, France felt on the verge of passing out.

Moments later, France's voice wrung throughout the house "AUGGGGGHHHH! SACRE BLEU! YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL ME, AREN'T YOU? S'il vous plait! S'il vous plait! Make it stooooooooooooop! ARGGHHHHHHH! YOU'RE FREEZING ME YOU BRITISH SON OF A – GAHHHhhh! It's so cold!"

Britain steeled himself to his older brother's cries as he held him under the running water. France needed to cool down, even if at this moment the cold seemed unbearable to the older nation.

Eventually, France's cries died down. The initial adrenaline the cold water had pumped through him abandoned him, leaving his throat incredibly sore "Please… Britain" he croaked weakly "Shut the water off"

Britain complied with his request and studied the ill nation before him who was standing there in nothing but his pants and if Britain had to guess- boxers. He knew it wouldn't do to let France stay so thoroughly soaked and so he fetched him a towel and a pair of spare pajamas that he might change into. Though he seemed sapped of all strength, France convinced Britain he could dress and dry himself properly. Britain hesitantly agreed, with the terms that if France wasn't done in twenty minutes he would check up on him.

Fifteen minutes later the bathroom door creaked open and France leaned in the doorway for support.

Britain had to do his best not to laugh at the sick nation. His spare pajamas hung awkwardly on France's taller frame. The sleeves and pants in particular seemed just a bit too short. However, surely they'd be more comfortable than France's usual attire.

"Mon Ami… What is so funny?" France asked tiredly.

"Nothing" Britain swallowed his laughter and looked at France seriously "I can take you to the guest bedroom so you can rest. It'll be better than the bloody sofa"

France coughed a few times "Merci.. That would be wonderful" he sighed tiredly.

Britain nodded and helped the older man to a charming and well kept guest bedroom. He peeled back the covers and France fairly crashed onto the bed. He was so tired and his whole being ached so badly…All he really wanted to do was sleep.

Britain tucked the warm blankets around his ailing friend "Do you need anything else?" he asked with surprising tenderness.

His initial instinct was to say no, that all he wanted was sleep- but he recalled something from earlier "Mon cher…might I have some tea… if the offer still stands" he asked hoarsely. His throat ached badly and he hoped the tea might soothe that sensation and warm him up inside so he might sleep peacefully.

Britain blanched. "Bloody Hell! The tea!" he raced out of the room, leaving an incredibly confused France behind.

Britain bolted into the kitchen, just to see his fears were confirmed. While he'd initially started brewing the tea, he had entirely neglected it when France's fever had risen. Now the tea had boiled over onto the burner and the kitchen was full of steam. Britain rubbed his temples; this was turning into a very long day.

Author's Note: So here's chapter 2 of my Hetalia Fanfic. Not sure how many chapters there will be, maybe one or two more. Initially, I thought this would simply have two chapters, but as the inspiration flows it is taking on a small life of its own. How am I doing guys? Reviews inspire me and make me happy! =D


	3. Instant Tea

He knew he couldn't simply leave things as they were. Britain dashed over to the stove and turned the burners off to prevent the situation from getting any worse. Thinking quickly, he pulled the chain of an overhead ceiling fan to try and clear the steam from the room. Then, putting on a pair of oven mitts he took the over- boiled pot of tea and poured it out in the sink. He didn't want to risk giving it to France when the poor man was already sick. The tea sizzled and steamed as it hit the cool metal of the sink and flowed down the drain. Britain set the teapot aside and pulled off the oven mitts. Now he just had to clean up the stove top. He soaked a sponge, grabbed some paper towels, and then set about cleaning the burner. He worked carefully, as not to burn his hands on the still hot metal.

A few minutes later, the stove top was clean and the steam had disappeared. However, Britain still didn't have the cup of tea he'd promised France. He was sure if the older nation found out what happened he'd never let him hear the end of it.

"There's no way I'm telling the bloody Frog" he muttered to himself. Though Britain hated the idea of instant tea, it certainly beat allowing his ego to be smashed. He'd just have to let the teabag steep long enough before bringing the cup to France so he might dispose of it and allay any suspicion. France certainly wouldn't know the difference! Satisfied with his solution, Britain set about making France a cup of tea in that fashion.

Not long after, Britain was stirring a teaspoon of honey into a cup of green tea. He'd been sure to dispose properly of the teabag. He faintly wondered if France liked milk in his tea. Britain himself enjoyed his tea with a dash of milk, but seeing as he could not be certain as to France's preference- he supposed he could always come back for the milk if the older nation truly desired any. Satisfied that the tea was at least passable, Britain carried it off toward the guest room.

He had left the door open and as he neared the room, Britain heard coughing coming from inside "You okay, Frog?" he asked as he came in.

France took a moment to catch his breath "Oui… Mon Ami." He croaked.

"Here, I brought your tea. I hope it's to your liking" Britain held out the cup to the sick country.

France took it shakily and sipped the warm concoction. It wasn't bad. The honey felt good as it slid down his raw throat. He took another sip "Mon Cher... this instant tea is not bad, no?" he said weakly.

Britain's face flushed "How the bloody hell do you know it's instant?!" he said in surprise.

"There is a distinct taste…Mon Cher" France drank down more of the tea.

"Well yes, but how can you bloody tell the difference?" Britain asked.

France smiled weakly "How could I call myself your older brother or even you friend… if I did not know anything about the tea you love so"

Britain blinked and felt his mouth creeping into a smile in spite of it all. France really did care! Granted neither of them showed it very often, but when push came to shove- they were brothers.

France finished the tea and handed the cup back to the Englishman "Mon Ami, I am very tired…" he said weakly.

"Right, I'll let you rest then. I'll be back to check on you within the hour" Britain said as he turned to leave the room.

"Mon Cher?" France's voice came from behind him.

Britain turned to the sick nation "Yes?"

"Thank you, for everything" France said as he closed his eyes, sleep threatening to claim him with each passing second.

"You're welcome…my friend" Britain said and left the room.

France drifted off to sleep quickly, his aching body nestled into the soft warmth of the guest bed.

Britain returned to the kitchen with the empty teacup and set it aside for the time being. He hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning and was rather hungry. He considered France might be hungry later as well and decided on fixing something that both of them could enjoy. He selected beef stew and began to gather ingredients for the dish. Though Britain's culinary skills were somewhat…lacking, beef stew was one of the few select dishes he could usually prepare without incident.

After a while, a pleasant aroma filled the kitchen. Britain hovered proudly over his pot of stew, stirring it carefully "Now who bloody said I couldn't cook?" he smiled to himself "I make the finest stew in all the world, if I do say so myself"

When the stew was finished, Britain turned off the stove and began ladling some of the marvelous dish into a bowl. He'd eat his dinner and then go check on France. Britain sat at a small kitchen table he often used when he didn't feel like eating in the dining room's lengthy table all by himself. He ate the stew calmly, with each bite he marveled at what a good cook he was. As he finished up his meal, Britain rinsed out the bowl and set it aside to be washed shortly. Right now he wanted to check on France.

The Englishman decided it best to bring the thermometer along as he retraced his earlier steps to the guest room. He moved quietly, careful not to rouse the ill nation from his slumber. He made it to France's bedside and peered down at the sleeping Frenchman. France was deeply asleep; Britain needn't have bothered with his careful creeping around. Nonetheless, Britain felt he couldn't be too careful. He slipped the thermometer into France's mouth and waited for the reading.

"_Please go down, please go down. For the love of her Majesty, please go down_" Britain prayed silently, hoping that France's fever wasn't as high.

BEEEEEP!

Britain found he had been dreading that sound. So far it had been nothing but the bearer of ill tidings. Nevertheless, he found the courage to pull the thermometer out of the Frenchman's mouth and glanced at the reading. He let out a sigh of relief "Thank God"

The Thermometer read 103.4°F.

"Well, that's still not good, but your temperature has gone down" Britain told the sleeping nation.

"I think I'll fetch a wet cloth for his forehead and then set about cleaning up" he told himself. Not only could he use a shower, but there were a few other things that needed to be straightened up now that France seemed to be a bit better off.

After he had fulfilled the first and easiest of his tasks, Britain began the clean up. He decided to start in the bathroom, knowing that France's discarded clothes were probably strewn across the tile floor. He was right, of course. Britain scooped up the French nation's clothing and carried them to the laundry room to be washed. Britain didn't particularly like to run such a small load through the wash and so he gathered some of his own clothing that could do with a cleaning. He placed the articles of clothing into the washer with care; he was certainly not one to overload it.

It wasn't terribly long before the washing machine was humming away as the load began. Britain then proceeded to the kitchen. Obviously, France wasn't going to be waking up any time soon, so he might as well put the stew away for the time being. Britain carefully poured the remainder of the stew into a few leak proof containers and placed them on the bottom shelf of the fridge. With that out of the way, he wiped down the sink and prepared to hand wash his dirty dishes, pots, and utensils.

He scrubbed each item thoroughly. Perhaps it took a bit longer this way, but Britain didn't mind. He liked his dishes to be pristine. His hands bobbed up and down in the soapy water as he worked and his thoughts drifted back to France. Earlier, he'd admitted to France that he was like an older brother to him, but France had already known. Indeed, he seemed to feel that Britain was his younger brother. Had France always felt this way? Surely not! He'd tried to invade Britain and had picked on him terribly in his childhood. Then again…didn't siblings argue by nature? Wasn't it indeed a fact that brothers all over the world quarreled over matters every day? No matter what the argument, whether over a silly toy, a woman, or even moral conduct- brothers were bound to have different views. Perhaps this feeling did go back to his childhood, Britain thought. Sure, France had picked on him… but hadn't he aspired secretly to be like him. He realized he'd _looked up_ to France. France would always be his older brother, indeed he had always been. It was okay for brothers to fight and annoy each other, but deep down in their heart of hearts, they were the best of friends.

Britain felt something wet against his cheek and realized he was crying "Bloody hell, Frog." He muttered to himself. He dried his hands on a towel and wiped his tears away with his thumb "If you saw me this sappy, you'd make me out to be a bloody wanker" He finished up washing the dishes and after drying them thoroughly, he put them away in their rightful places.

The Englishman moved to the living room and neatly folded the blankets that had been left in disarray. He'd leave them on the couch for now, on the off chance France might want to relax there tomorrow. Britain picked up the wooden chair he'd sat in earlier and carried it back to its rightful place next to the lamp. He surveyed the room a moment and proceeded to tidy up a few more things before he felt satisfied. It was probably best to check on the wash, Britain decided. His instincts were dead on and he moved the load over to the dryer. He felt a bit anxious to get his shower, but first he wanted to check up on France again.

The older nation was still fast asleep as Britain approached his bedside. France's shivering had calmed significantly since earlier, Britain took this a definite positive. He smiled at his older brother softly and decided he'd refresh the cool wet cloth and then get his shower.

Britain was glad France's condition was improving. Taking care of the Frenchman was hard work, not to mention seeing him ill tugged a bit at Britain's heartstrings. He was glad at long last he could relax a bit and get a nice, calming shower. Britain walked up a flight of stairs into the master bedroom that thankfully, had its own bathroom as well. He closed his bedroom door and set out a pair of mint green pajamas as well as undergarments on his bed.

Moments later, Britain was standing in the shower, letting the warm water work its magic. It had been a long day and the hot water soothed him greatly.

When he was through showering, and dressed in his pajamas, Britain looked to the clock on the wall. It read Nine o'clock in the evening! He didn't think it was possibly, but somehow this day had flown by and dragged on instantaneously. Ordinarily, he might stay up a while and read a well-written novel. However, this day had been tiring. Surely, it couldn't hurt to turn in early? The more Britain thought about it, the more it seemed like a wise decision. With his mind made up, the Englishman decided there was clearly one last thing to do before bed. He made his way back down the stairs and headed for the guest room. He made his way over to the French Nation and checked him over carefully. Satisfied that France would be alright for the night, Britain headed out the door.

"Sleep well, Big Brother France" he whispered as he went.

**Author's Note: Probably only one more chapter to this, but we'll see how it plays out. I hope you all have enjoyed chapter 3! Reviews make me happy and inspire me to write more! Thank you all so far for your kind reviews! See you next chapter~**


	4. For the Sake of Friendship

The bright morning light shown through the guest bedroom window, piercing through the ill nation's eyelids. Instinctively, France rolled over, turning his back to the window. He wasn't quite ready to wake up yet. Perhaps he could drift back to sleep now that the sunlight wasn't directly forcing itself into his tired eyes. Yes, it would be simple enough…he was still more than half asleep anyway. However, the Frenchman soon realized it wasn't that simple. He inhaled deeply and discovered that was a big mistake as he unwillingly expelled a series of coughs. He jolted up in bed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he attempted to fill his lungs with air once more. At last, the coughing subsided and the French nation managed to catch his breath. He put a hand to his forehead "Ughh… I feel horrible" his head was pounding, his throat was raw, and his whole body ached. On closer inspection, however, France noticed that though he still felt quite cold, the warmth of a couple blankets was enough to keep him from shivering "_My fever must have gone down_" he thought to himself.

France smiled lightly, he knew it was only thanks to Britain's efforts that he was doing as well as he was now. He still felt lousy, but he knew he could rely on his little brother, Britain, to take care of him. If France had to guess, Britain was probably still sleeping. He supposed he could put forth the effort to beat Britain to the kitchen and make something appetizing for breakfast, but he really didn't feel up to the task. Besides, with him poking around in the kitchen Britain would be bound to wake up. While normally he wouldn't have taken that into consideration, the younger nation had taken care of him so faithfully yesterday and France felt he deserved a little extra sleep.

France leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Letting his thoughts drift to a time long since past. "_Oh Britain, you were such a cute little nation, no? I could not help but tease you_."

Though France knew, it was sometimes far more than simple teasing. True enough, he had tried time and time again to invade the country that Britain…no…Arthur Kirkland represented. They'd fought against each other countless times. Though in reality, he had never hated the smaller nation. In fact, it made him _happy_ to have a younger brother. Sure, they argued most of the time, but it was all in good sport. Deep down they weren't really enemies, they were friends. In fact, Francis Bonnefoy didn't think he had a friend that was dearer to him. Indeed, right now without Arthur's help he might still be lying on the meeting room floor! He certainly hoped Britain understood the depth of his gratitude- not just for the care he was providing him now, but for always being there.

France was roused from his musings by the sound of a pair of shoes creaking on the floor boards "Good morning, France. You slept well, I trust?" Britain inquired.

France opened his eyes "Oui... until the sun ruined it" he said hoarsely.

Britain laughed lightly "Right, I probably should have pulled the curtains closed last night. Terribly sorry"

"Non... it is fine" the Frenchman sat up in bed a bit too quickly, making his head spin.

"Easy there, Frog." Britain scolded gently "How are you feeling today?"

"_Horrible! Every inch of my beautiful body hurts!_" France thought, but decided against voicing it. Instead, he chose to relieve Britain of some of the worry he'd been causing "I feel a bit better than I did yesterday Mon Ami" he said with a tired smile.

"Glad to hear it" Britain said with a nod and pulled out the thermometer.

France knew what was coming and permitted the younger man to slip the thermometer under his tongue.

"You know, Frog" Britain was saying "How about I bring you breakfast in bed?"

France's eyes went wide.

"I could make some delicious scones and some nice hot tea" Britain continued.

BEEEEP!

The thermometer chimed and Britain removed it from the Frenchman's mouth.

"103.0°F… well you still have a fever, but it's going down" Britain said and glanced at France "What the bloody hell is that look for?!"

"N-nothing Mon Ami" France said weakly "_His cooking is going to kill me!_" he thought to himself.

"Well alright then" Britain huffed and then smiled "I'll go start on breakfast"

France watched him go with a look of dread on his face. There was no sugar coating it- Britain was a _terrible_ cook. He probably should have stopped him, but had decided not to for fear of coming across ungrateful. Though he wasn't so sure he'd made the wisest decision.

It was too late to change his mind, however, as it wasn't very long before Britain was reentering the room bearing a breakfast tray.

"_For the love of God, please let it be edible_" France prayed silently.

"Here you are, France! The finest scones and tea to be found anywhere!" Britain said as he placed the tray in the Frenchman's lap.

"Oui…Merci" France faked a smiled.

Britain watched him intently, waiting for his chance to brag about his scone recipe.

France felt his eyes on him. It hardly seemed fair- France was sick and now Britain was torturing him! Still, he knew the younger nation meant well. The Frenchman picked up a scone and bit into it. If only it had been bland, perhaps it would have been tolerable. However this, _this _was absolutely awful. France didn't know anything rancid enough to compare it to! He forced himself to swallow the disgusting lump, chasing it quickly with a long drink of tea.

Clearly oblivious to his suffering, Britain inquired "So, how is it?"

"It is a…unique… flavor Mon Ami" France said weakly, trying desperately not to criticize.

"What do you mean by that?" Britain asked.

France picked up the scone again "_The taste is so terrible, surely I will be sick to my stomach now as well_" France thought helplessly "Ugh, there is no way I am eating this crap"

"What the bloody hell did you just say, Frog?!" Britain snapped, anger flashing in his eyes.

France realized all too late that he'd voiced the last part aloud. He couldn't take it back now "Britain, your cooking has definite room for improvement…in fact I've never tasted anything worse" France averted his gaze.

"I'll have you know my scones are the most delicious in the entire United bloody Kingdom!" Britain growled.

"Unfortunately Mon Ami, that's not saying much" France said dryly.

"Bloody hell! I don't believe you, Frog! I take care of you out of the goodness of my heart and all you can do is criticize my cooking!" Britain felt the anger rising within him "Brother indeed, if you ask me you're no brother of mine! You're a bother!" and with that Britain stormed out of the room.

France inhaled deeply and sighed. He'd known Britain was always sensitive about his cooking, but it couldn't be helped. He couldn't eat that stuff! It was probably borderline toxic... Then again, perhaps he could have stuck it out. Britain was being awfully kind to him; he'd done so much for him already. Surely, he could have allowed Britain to believe his cooking was satisfactory if even for a little while. They had been getting along surprisingly well, after all. Granted, France was sick and he wasn't up for much, but it felt nice to not be at odds with Britain for a little while. His thoughts were only interrupted by a wave of coughing that overtook him.

Britain found himself in the laundry room, fuming as he yanked each piece of clothing out of the dryer and folded it. Who did France think he was?! Britain didn't have to allow France to sleep in the guest bedroom; he hadn't been required to tend to the Frenchman's every need! Indeed, he had done everything out of the goodness of his heart, out of the friendship he shared with France. And what had the older nation done? He'd had the gull to complain about the meal that had been caringly prepared for him! France was just a bloody git who wanted every little thing his way! Well fine then, he could have it his way, but Britain didn't plan to stick around and play maid.

The Englishman paused as his hands closed around the brilliant blue fabric of the Frenchman's attire. His first instinct was to toss it aside, but his eyes softened. France hadn't really been out to get him, had he? The poor frog was sick and he'd only been speaking his mind. A feeling of guilt swept over Britain as he realized the truth. Even though France hated his cooking and had probably disliked it for a long time, he had still tried to handle it. He had tried so very hard not to offend Britain. The Englishman felt horrible, France probably felt as though he was trying to torture him! "Bloody hell, I've been so stupid" Britain muttered to himself as he neatly folded the Frenchman's garments. As Britain finished folding the clean laundry, he grabbed the Frenchman's clothing and headed for the guest bedroom… he had to make things right.

France glanced up from his own musings as Britain entered the room.

"I've brought your garments. They've been cleaned and folded" Britain said a bit stiffly, as if he needed an excuse to enter any room in his own house.

"Britain…" France began hoarsely.

"You have every right to be angry with me, you know" Britain said, his back turned as he placed the clean clothes on a small chair that rested in the corner of the room.

This surprised France "I…do?"

"Yes, actually. I overreacted when you criticized my cooking, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. After all, Frog, you are sick and I should take that into consideration" Britain's back was still turned, as if he didn't have the courage to look France in the eyes.

"Mon Ami... you are wrong?" France said sadly.

"Bloody hell, Frog. I'm trying to apologize, what more do you want?" Britain said, turning to face the older man.

"Mon Cher… you had every right to react the way you did to me. You have done nothing but show me kindness. You took me into your home…and have exhausted yourself tending to my every need… I have no room to complain" France said, his voice hoarse, but meaningful.

Britain shook his head "That's no excuse, please forgive me for behaving in such a horrid fashion"

France smiled tiredly "Oui, I forgive you"

"So…" Britain cleared his throat "Anything you'd like me to bring you?"

"Do you have any Play B-" France trailed off as Britain shot him a glare.

"Bloody Pervert" Britain huffed.

"Just kidding, Mon Ami… do you have anything else to eat?" France asked weakly.

"Actually yes, I made some beef stew last night. I could warm some up for you" Britain said.

France seemed hesitant.

"It's my very best dish" Britain continued "…And if you don't like it, don't feel obligated to finish it"

"Alright Mon Ami" France finally agreed.

Britain nodded and walked out to the kitchen to heat up some stew. He decided to heat up a bowl for each of them so he might have a casual talk with France as they ate. In practically no time at all, Britain was carrying two steaming hot bowls of stew to the guest bedroom. He took note that France had leaned back against the pillows yet again, his eyes were closed. Britain had a feeling the Frenchman was still awake, however.

"I come bearing food" Britain said lightly as he walked over.

France opened his eyes "Oui, I can see that"

"Well then" Britain said, holding a bowl in front of the sick nation "Eat up"

France took the bowl of stew offered him and took in a small mouthful, truthfully a bit afraid that it would taste as terrible as Britain's scones. As the flavor filled his mouth, France's eyes widened in shock. It tasted _good_. The Frenchman spooned a slightly larger mouthful to his lips. No, it wasn't just good… it was _delicious_! "Mon Ami…This is amazing" he said.

Britain laughed "Well I'm glad to hear it's not the 'worst thing you've ever tasted'" he said lightly as he sat at the foot of France's bed with his own bowl of stew.

"Really… I would never have expected you to be capable of making such a dish" France said taking in another mouthful.

"Watch it, Frog" Britain warned lightly.

"I hope you do know, Britain… I am truly grateful to you" France said, voice still hoarse.

"For what, Frog? The stew? Taking care of you?" Britain asked.

France shook his head lightly, trying to avoid aggravating his already pounding head "Non…not just that. I am thankful to have you in my life, to have you as a younger brother. I was not always the nicest to you growing up, but still you have stood by me"

"Oh Frog, don't you get sappy on me now" Britain said softly.

"Really, Mon Ami… We still fight often, and I don't think I will ever share on all of your views…" France continued, but Britain cut him off.

"It's okay for brothers to fight. All over the world there is not a moment that passes by that brothers don't fight. In fact, if siblings didn't fight it would be bit unnatural" Britain said.

"Oui… I am just glad that no matter how much we may fight, at the end of the day I still have a brother that cares for me." France said as a cough escaping him; the talking had been agitating his throat.

"You stupid frog" Britain smiled sympathetically "You're making your throat worse" he sighed and shook his head in amusement.

"Britain…" France said.

"But I know what you mean" Britain went on "And I hope you know… even if you weren't my 'big brother' I would still be by your side. Not for selfish gain, to be sure, but for the sake of friendship"

**Epilogue:**

After several days, France had largely recovered. The Frenchman, on this particular morning was hovering over Britain's shoulder as he read the morning paper 'What is this stupid article you are reading?"

"None of your business… go home already, bloody Frog" Britain grumbled.

"Maybe I will live here with you, no?" France said lightly.

"No" Britain said firmly, adjusting the paper in front of him… he was tired and had a pulsing headache this morning that France was only seeming to aggravate further.

"Aw Mon Ami, can you not take a joke?" France teased.

"I can take a bloody joke, it's you I can't stand" Britain huffed and rubbed his temples.

"Aw that hurts Mon Cher, you are so rude to me" France complained, though he knew Britain wasn't entirely serious.

"Bloody hell, do you ever shut up Frog?!" Britain finally snapped, whirling around to face France. He wasn't in the mood for this.

France blinked and took note of a pair of dark circles beneath Englishman's eyes. Come to think of it… Britain _did_ look a bit pale. "Mon Ami… are you feeling alright?" the Frenchman asked.

Britain sighed "I've had a bloody headache all morning and it won't go away… I'm sorry for taking it out on you, but will you please be quiet if you insist on sticking around?"

The Frenchman bit his lip, quickly realizing what was going on. Should he tell Britain? No, he'd allow him to keep his dignity for as long as possible. True enough, the younger nation had taken good care of him, and in doing so he had caught his illness. He knew it was only a matter of time before the fever would set in. France couldn't help but feel just a little guilty. "_Though not __**too**__ guilty_" he mused as he took a seat on the British man's sofa. After all, he'd be the one taking care of him.

**~The End~**

**Author's Note: Well, I hope you all have enjoyed my first Hetalia Fanfic, I know I enjoyed writing it. I get the nagging feeling that this chapter sucks, but then I've always been a harsh critic of my own work. Please, let me know what you thought of it! Reviews make me happy! =D**

**P.S. I haven't mentioned this throughout the story, because I thought it unnecessary. I mean, this is FANFICTION, why would the creator need to write FANFICTION when whatever they write can and will become CANON. But just so we're covered, Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**


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